


mors et fugacem persequitur virum

by visiblemarket



Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: M/M, roman soldiers au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: The day had started well — a dry morning in Albion, a miracle in itself — and a warm, familiar body curled against his side.





	mors et fugacem persequitur virum

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with a meme asking folks to [send me a pairing and a historical AU for me to write one scene of](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/160164593981/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-historical-au-and-ill). The first one I got was ["Roman soldiers + John and Chas"](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/160371403026/roman-soldiers-john-and-chas), and here we are.

****The day had started well — a dry morning in Albion, a miracle in itself — and a warm, familiar body curled against his side.

A slow, lazy exchange of kisses built to quick, rough strokes and warm, wet release between them; Constantine muffled a groan against his throat, and sighed. 

“One day,” Constantine had said, drowsy and vague, nuzzling their noses together. “I’ll have you in a proper bed.“ 

He’d laughed at that, low and fond, reached out to run a hand through the dusty gold hair. “If you say so.“ 

Constantine had smiled, strangely soft. “I do,” he said, curling closer, kissing him again. “One day.” 

* 

Today, he thinks, looking down at the arrow piercing his side, will likely not be that day. 

* 

“You had to be so bloody _brave_ , didn’t you?” says Constantine, throwing aside the arrow and the knife. 

“They’re kids, I had to—" 

“They’re _soldiers_ ,” Constantine growls, pressing a wad of cloth to the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. “Saved them for what? Could die tomorrow, could spend their whole bloody lives fighting for…for…” he huffs in frustration. “For the glory of the fucking empire. For _nothing_.“ 

“I should’ve let them die?“ 

“Yes,” says Constantine, sullen, and drops his gaze. He’s angry, which seems — unreasonable, given the situation. There’s blood on his cheek, streaking his neck and armor, staining his hands. 

“You’re injured,” he says. 

Constantine looks up at him again, brow furrowed, and then down at himself. Shakes his head. “I’m not.“ 

“You’re _bleeding_ ,” he says, wishes he could rise — he could, maybe, if he— 

“It’s not…” Constantine chuckles, low and unamused. “It’s not mine.” 

 _Then whose…_ oh. He swallows, and lets his eyes drift — thick trees stretch high above him, and beyond them the sky, brewing with dark silver clouds. The ground dry beneath him, the scent of fresh earth and pine, of whatever it is Constantine is pressing, fervently, into his wound. Constantine kneeling beside him — safe, whole. Angry, but alive. 

It’s quiet, except for Constantine’s quick, shuddering breaths (or, perhaps, his own). The stench of battle hasn’t followed them — the din of it, the shouts and clangs and sick, wet sounds of punctured skin and broken bones, is a memory, fading fast. 

There are, he thinks, worse places to die. 

Constantine is muttering something under his breath, pressing his hands to the wound — it’s hard to focus, the edges of his perception blur to darkness and waterlogged sound, the rest is alight with pain and panic — but he tries. There’s a steady monotony to whatever Constantine’s saying, familiar but strange, coming from him. 

“Are you…praying?" 

Constantine shrugs. 

“To _who_?" 

“Whoever’s listenin’,” says Constantine, practically under his breath, and resumes chanting.  But it’s not — it’s not a prayer. The words are unfamiliar but drip with reckless arrogance, harsh demands. 

He remembers his mother — the right word, a quick glare, said to still the quickening of a child in the womb, to stop the heart of a man. For a price, of course — for a price, and a cost besides. 

“No,” he says, firmly as he can, trying to push him away. 

“Yes,” Constantine says, batting his hands away with ease. 

“If it’s time—" 

“It’s not,” Constantine says. “You won’t die today." 

“The gods—" 

“Fuck the bloody gods,” Constantine snaps. “They won’t take you from me, all right? Not today. Not like this." 

“Constantine—“ he says, soft — he can’t manage more, a prayer of his own, a warning. Digs for the last reserves of strength he has, and reaches out: presses his hand to the man’s cheek. Constantine stills — shuts his eyes, inhales sharp. Leans into his palm for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“No,” Constantine says, low and sure, tense with rage. “You won’t die. I won’t—“ Drops down, presses a quick kiss to his cheek, and hisses in his ear. “ _I won’t bloody let you_." 

 _If you say so_ , he thinks, and — taking one last breath, inhaling the scent of him, sweat and blood and sun-warmed hair — shuts his eyes.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be [_Dulce et decorum est_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_et_Decorum_est) because that's the most memorable Latin phrase I know. Then I realized, there's probably a million or so fics with that same title. The next line in the original poem (the Horace one, not Wilfred Owen's) is _mors et fugacem persequitur virum_ , meaning: "Death pursues the man who flees".


End file.
